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2004: Howard Manning Jr.

Howard Manning Jr. peers over his glasses at the young inmates in striped jumpsuits who stand to face him in Wake County's Courtroom 3A. One by one, they plead guilty: second-degree murder, burglary, assault.

This is the dreary part of a Superior Court judge's work, the end-of-the-line declaration that nothing else has helped. On this mid-November morning, the room is nearly empty as Manning sends the guilty to prison. Around noon, he is done.

Manning takes off his black robe, hops in his 2003 Mercury Grand Marquis and drives to Chapel Hill to speak to dozens of school principals. His style is a mixture of irreverence and dry wit, and his message is blunt. "Some of your high schools," Manning declares, "are about as sorry as I've ever seen."

Courtrooms to classrooms. Howard Manning has seen the worst of each, and he has noticed a connection. Almost none of the felons in his courtroom ever did much in school, and school never did much for them.

"They are your responsibility as principal," he says to the school leaders. "There's no place to hide."

For principals and state legislators, there's a warning in those words. Manning isn't the first judge to link bad schools with bad lives. But he's the one who has done the most about it on a statewide scale -- and he's just getting started.

Two years ago, Manning ordered that every public classroom in the state have a caring, qualified teacher, and every school have sufficient resources and be led by a competent principal. This summer, the state Supreme Court upheld Manning's rulings in the long-running case, Leandro vs. the State of North Carolina.

The decisions have huge implications for students, educators and taxpayers. Eventually, they could add up to better schools -- and hundreds of millions a year in increased spending. Already, Gov. Mike Easley has had to scrape together $22 million as a first step, with the money going to 16 of the state's poorest districts. The case rose out of conditions in five poor school systems but was expanded by Manning to consider educational opportunities for children across the state.

The Republican judge had more impact on public schools this year than any other state leader, Easley included.

The schools case is the latest episode in the lifelong education of Howdy Manning, the eldest son of a prominent Raleigh lawyer. Manning grew up knowing a comfortable life, but he has become a champion of disadvantaged children.

He has handled the case in unorthodox ways, speaking his mind in often colorful, plain English and writing long-winded opinions.

Even as the Supreme Court sided with him on his ruling, the justices noted its 400-page heft and the "free-wheeling nature of the trial court's order."

Critics say he has taken the law too far.

"Judge Manning is the most activist judge since I don't know when," says Sabra Faires, counsel for House co-speaker Richard Morgan, a Republican from Moore County. "He issues these rambling opinions that, once you get done with them, it's hard to know what he wants. Then he gets mad when he perceives us as being slow to react."

When he's angry, Manning spares few: indifferent legislators, uncaring teachers, ineffective principals, arrogant administrators, blue-ribbon commissions, pointy-shoed experts from up North.

"I'm carrying out my responsibility as I see it," he says. "You have to push people to make things move in the direction that the law requires. You can't be a wallflower and do that.

"The law applies to everyone across the board, not just the privileged few."

Manning's rulings reflect a personal style that is both demanding and generous, learned and folksy. He loves to talk, especially when he's telling a story, whether it's about bats in his family's vacation house in Oriental or his tennis-playing days in the Navy.

But the 61-year-old judge from Raleigh has earned such a reputation for sound judgment -- especially in complicated matters -- that senior judges have tapped him repeatedly to handle cases with significant statewide impact.

Now, with legislators weeks away from returning to Raleigh, a judge who has no hesitation about raising hell is determined to make his orders stick, prodding lawmakers to do whatever it takes to help struggling students succeed. He has signaled repeatedly that he expects legislators to snap to and respond.

There are times he wishes he could just hold them in contempt of court.

"You can't march 'em down the street," Manning says during a recent talk to a community group in North Raleigh. "I can't get [Wake Sheriff] Donnie Harrison and the drug dogs to go down to the legislature and pick up [Senate leader] Marc Basnight."

He does, however, appreciate the power of a stern lecture from the bench.

"One thing judges can do, is we can have hearings," Manning says. "It's amazing what can happen when you have a hearing."

Rebellious early years

Howdy Manning has never been afraid to test his limits. At 14, he took his father's Olds 88 for a joy ride when his parents were away, somehow escaping blame for an obvious dent he left in the rear bumper.

He joined friends from Daniels Junior High School in bashing mailboxes along Ridge Road in west Raleigh. That punishment he didn't avoid, replacing the damaged property by doing yard chores for his mother at 25 cents an hour.

"I walk down Ridge Road today and I think, 'A few of those mailboxes are mine,' '' he says.

For his last two years of high school, his parents sent him off to Virginia Episcopal School, prestigious and private. He played football and was a top tennis player.

As a freshman at UNC-Chapel Hill in 1961, he pledged Zeta Psi fraternity, a group known for its irreverence. His weight ballooned to 270 pounds on his six-foot frame. He drank a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Manning has always been known as Howdy, a family nickname given him by his grandmother. His expanding girth earned him an additional moniker: Hog.

One winter night, fraternity brothers left a frozen porker in his bed. A Marlboro cigarette -- Manning's brand back then -- dangled from its mouth.

Howard Manning Sr. was worried. When it came time for Howdy's younger brother, George, to attend Chapel Hill, he left him at his dorm with a warning, Howdy Manning says.

"Now look here," his father told George. "I want you to have a good time, but I don't want another [expletive] Howdy on my hands."

"I had a good time," Manning acknowledges. "I was a pain in the ass."

Dad pushes hard

Howard Sr. set a daily example for his four sons with his demanding work ethic. He'd work from 8 to 6, return for dinner at the family's Banbury Road home, then go back to his law office. The kids were in bed by the time he was done. He often worked weekends.

He was strict. Dinner conversation was often devoted to questions about how the boys were doing in school. "Inquisitions," Manning calls them.

"We were glad when we saw the taillights pull out of the drive-way," he says.

Education was a given in the Manning home. His father and mother were heirs to family traditions of academic achievement. His father, who died in 2002, received his law degree from Harvard Law School after attending UNC-Chapel Hill. His mother, Mariana, who died this summer, graduated from Smith College.

His grandfather, Isaac Hall Manning, was the dean of the UNC medical school.

Two of his younger brothers are lawyers: Tommy, a respected criminal lawyer in Raleigh; and George, a successful corporate lawyer in Atlanta. His youngest brother, Isaac, is an architect in Texas.

Howdy Manning started law school in 1965, attending classes in a building named for his great grandfather, John Manning, the first professor of law on the UNC faculty. The family expectations were etched in stone.

Larry McDevitt, a lawyer in Asheville who sat next to Manning in law school, remembers the first day of criminal law class, when the professor read the roll.

"When he got to Howdy, he looked up," McDevitt says. " 'Manning Hall, I presume?' "

Howdy grows up

The family gave him more than a name. As a young lawyer, Manning learned a lasting lesson from his father: Know the facts. Know everything about a case. Know it better than your opponent.

If the case involves a piece of property, drive there, get out of your car, walk around, know the terrain, take a soil sample, examine the records. Know the law.

"You found out all the facts about your client's case so you knew it backwards and forwards," Manning says.

His father also passed along a sense of fearlessness, made clear by the controversial cases the elder Manning accepted. He represented N.C. State, for example, when it forced out popular basketball coach Jim Valvano.

But by observation, Howdy Manning learned another lesson: Don't do everything the way his father did.

"You get more with sugar than you do with quinine," Manning says. "And he was quinine."

After law school, Manning served four years as a Navy Judge Advocate General officer in California and then Charleston, S.C., When he returned to Raleigh to join the firm his father helped found, he had learned to stand on his own.

"I had enough space away from him so I could start to develop my own techniques of practicing law and doing things myself as me rather than being in his shadow from day one," he says.

On his own, Manning learned physical discipline. He adopted a strict exercise regimen that has never waned, slimming down to the 200 pounds he weighs today.

To save time, he traded tennis for jogging -- and ran the New York City marathon at age 37. Today, he walks at a brisk pace every morning for more than an hour, covering streets and paths inside the Raleigh Beltline that he has known since he was knocking down mailboxes. He times each walk and keeps a log, a habit from his running days.

He and his wife, Elizabeth, settled in Five Points in the mid 1970s with their young son, little Howdy. Their daughter, Anna, soon followed. They had been there more than a dozen years -- and remain there still -- when Manning decided to seek a six-month stint on the Superior Court bench in 1988.

Manning had practiced law in Raleigh for 16 years. He had argued a complex case before the U.S. Supreme Court. He had done criminal work, civil work, all of it. He wanted to try something else.

Manning grabs a gavel

Manning was a conservative Democrat who had switched parties in 1987, after he saw Colorado Sen. Gary Hart try to continue his presidential campaign despite revelations of womanizing. Similarly, he was aggravated when he heard that former Attorney General Rufus Edmisten, a Democrat who had been prosecuted by Manning's father for a misdemeanor tax charge, was going to run for secretary of state.

A vacancy in Superior Court offered the chance at something new, and Manning let it be known he was interested. Gov. Jim Martin, a Republican, appointed him.

Experience as a judge, Manning figured, could be valuable for a lawyer. Besides, he understood that as a Republican, his term was bound to end with the elections that November. Not since the 19th century had a Republican won a seat on any Superior Court in the state.

"I saw it as a great opportunity," Manning says. "You're always learning."

Others quickly learned he was willing to challenge established practices -- starting with an expectation that he approve all routine plea bargains.

During one of his first court sessions in Durham, Manning rejected a deal that would have meant a five-year prison sentence for a black man involved in a drug deal. He refused it because just minutes before, prosecutors had presented a lighter sentence for a white man charged with a similar crime.

"Why should he be going to jail for five years when they were both doing the same thing?" he asks now. "I'm not going to send him to jail for five years when I just let the white guy go on probation."

His first tour as a judge gave Manning a close-up understanding of the link between crime and education.

"It was an eye-opener," he says. "The terrific extent of the drug problem, the extent of the poverty and the lack of education in the defendants. No matter where you went -- and I covered a lot of counties -- I was running into the same stuff."

Manning's approach to the job helped catch the attention of Durham's black political leadership, gaining him key endorsements that brought decisive support in November 1988. He won.

Bucking the party line

Manning was on the Superior Court bench for two years, then ran for chief justice of the state Supreme Court in 1990. He refused to join a party-sponsored ad that attacked the sitting members of the Supreme Court. He lost, as did all the Republicans running for appellate seats.

Manning has never been one to follow the party line, regardless of the party. While he has always voted for the Republican presidential nominee -- even when he was a Democrat -- he says he regularly splits his ticket.

This fall, while running for the Supreme Court again, he challenged Republicans and Democrats to not endorse candidates in the nonpartisan race. Manning lost on that point -- and lost the race. His current term as a Superior Court judge, however, continues until 2008.

As a young lawyer advising the Raleigh city schools in the mid-1970s, he left a lasting impression on former Wake schools Superintendent Bob Bridges, then a mid-level administrator.

One of Manning's jobs as counsel to the district's board of education was to monitor expulsion hearings for students -- most of them black -- in the early days of school desegregation. White students often brought an adult along; black students seldom did. Eventually, Manning told Bridges the black students would fare better with representation of some sort -- a savvy parent, a minister, maybe even a lawyer.

"For the time, he was bravely independent," Bridges says. "He could have just sat there and nodded and watched the system grind on, but he wasn't willing to do that."

In 1991, Jim Fuller, a lawyer who served briefly on the state Court of Appeals, called Manning to ask for help on a last-ditch clemency appeal for a convicted murderer, the first set for execution in five years.

Fuller and Manning were an unlikely pair. A civil-rights advocate, Fuller was working on the case with Rich Rosen, a law professor at UNC and expert in wrongful convictions. Manning was a supporter of the death penalty, but he agreed to help because the defendant's lawyer had botched the case.

"Once he became convinced we were right, he didn't seem the least bit afraid of the political risk," Fuller says. "He didn't flinch."

Two years later, after a mother and her child died from carbon-monoxide poisoning at Walnut Terrace, a public housing development near downtown Raleigh, Manning was hired by the Raleigh Housing Authority to investigate.

Manning studied the complexities of boilers and heating systems. He interviewed agency staff. He crawled around in the basement beneath the mother and child's apartment. He checked the weather and wind conditions on the night of the deaths.

"It was more in-depth than some people were expecting," says Tom McCormick, Raleigh city attorney.

Manning concluded that the housing authority was negligent. The victims deserved better, he wrote in his 62-page report.

"The fact that many of the human beings that reside in Walnut Terrace have low incomes," he wrote, "does not in any way diminish their dignity and rights to safe and decent housing."

The housing authority's director resigned three days later. The mayor replaced six of nine board members the next year.

Schools case beckons

Manning's reputation continued to grow. Gov. Jim Hunt, a Democrat, appointed him to a Superior Court seat in 1996.

Another Democrat, Burley Mitchell, then the chief justice of the state Supreme Court, found him plenty of work.

Manning went to see Mitchell one day in 1997, intending to complain about changes Mitchell had made in rules for judges. Mitchell listened, then changed the subject.

"I've got a job for you," Mitchell told Manning. "We'd like for you to take the school case."

The case had been filed by several of the state's poorest school districts. The state Supreme Court had just ruled that the state constitution promises every child access to a "sound basic education." Mitchell was giving Manning the chance to determine whether the state was meeting that standard.

"That case was going to need someone with tenacity," Mitchell says. "I knew that he was a tireless judge who would pay attention to the work and get it right."

Manning plunged into the case. He rounded up the lawyers and educators for regular monthly meetings in his chambers. He studied volumes of material. He called dozens of witnesses to testify.

He drove to Hoke County -- a small school district about 90 miles southwest of Raleigh that had become the state's test case -- to talk with teachers, students and principals.

Schools were on break at the time, but students needing extra help were in class.

In a computer lab, Manning recalls, children had been parked in front of keyboards without direction. A teacher assistant was more concerned about her lunch, he says, than the students.

"Those children weren't doing a damn thing. They were just sitting there," he says. "You can have all the computers that you need, but unless you've got someone to teach them, it doesn't mean a thing."

Manning's visit to a middle school reinforced his impression of educational malpractice.

A sixth-grader was being taught his multiplication tables by arranging groups of popsicle sticks, Manning says. The teacher asked him for the product of six and seven. The child counted the sticks.

"I don't know what they were teaching, but I have never forgotten that," he says.

After two years of discovery and testimony, Manning sat down at his breakfast nook one rainy Sunday morning in 2000 and starting tapping out the decision on his laptop computer.

In a series of decisions over the next two years, Manning ruled that North Carolina was shirking its constitutional duty to the neediest students, whether they live in poor, rural districts such as Hoke or in urban, more affluent districts such as Wake.

Manning's wife, a former English teacher at Meredith College, read all 400 pages for grammar and usage. Mitchell, by then off the Supreme Court, reviewed each ruling in advance.

In July, the high court upheld Manning on every point except his requirement that the state provide pre-kindergarten for disadvantaged 4-year-old children. Manning argued that schools can only do so much when children start school lacking even basic language skills.

"They never had a chance in hell because they were behind from the beginning," he says of poor children who don't get preschool.

The justices said pre-kindergarten is probably necessary, but not something a judge can compel.

Since then, Manning has blustered, cajoled and threatened, pushing state leaders to improve schools. Easley has come up with money twice -- $10 million days before the Supreme Court's ruling, then $12 million more in October on the eve of another hearing in Manning's courtroom.

Legislators, accustomed to setting the rules themselves, have been slower to respond.

Marc Basnight, a Democrat from Manteo who leads the state Senate, says North Carolina already spends an "awfully high" amount on schools.

Still, he says, "How do we argue with the fact that we have not fulfilled our obligation to the people of the state? Manning's correct that some school systems lack the resources they need and are unable to pay."

John Hood, president of the John Locke Foundation, a conservative think tank in Raleigh, says legislators have little to gain from a fight with Manning.

"But there is a real feeling of encroachment here," Hood says. "The question among legislators is, 'Why should we be taking orders from a judge in Raleigh?' "

The short answer: Manning has the backing of the Supreme Court, and he's pretty feisty about telling that to anyone who will listen.

"I'm right here," he says. "I'm like a bad penny."

And he's still in court on the Leandro case. Once again, Manning takes his seat in Courtroom 10C. A room full of well-dressed lawyers and educators are gathered on this December afternoon for yet another hearing.

Manning starts by telling them he has just come from criminal court.

"The defendants were Wake County high school dropouts," he says. "You've got to go to the third floor and live for a week to be reminded how far we have to go."

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